And The Sky Turned To Ash

I wake up early today to go on a run in the park that I used to play, that I learned to ride my bike in, that I won a 5k in at 16, that I had sex in with my first girlfriend, that I first broke someone else's nose in, and I noticed it empty. Over half this city has fled or moved to the hotels downtown and my run is calm and serene and there is an ominous quiet and I lose myself in the peace. I feel like this is my Vanilla Sky as memories pop in and out of my head and I wish, at one point, that I could be six all over again and start over but I love my life and I get too afraid that I may not follow the same path and end up somewhere else. I return home and 'Anthony' is still in town and we walk near Tulane campus where a fraternity house he used to be in is having a party. The streets are empty and the wind picks up and we see the clouds lazily crawl in wide arcs across our heads and the sun begins to dip in the west and the sky turns to an odd shade of pink and red and someone brings out a huge speaker and the twenty five of us in the entire neighborhood drink from a keg of Natural Ice and listen to the Doors "The End" over and over and over. 'Allison' calls me and wants me to come over but I tell her that I don't want to and she curses me out but I'm so into this weather and the largess of the moment that it doesn't affect me one bit. We talk about the history of a city like New Orleans, relating stories of Mardi Gras and drunken nights and debutante balls as kids and wonder how it will feel if tomorrow this is all washed away and our memories will only exist in our heads. I return home for a late dinner and my parents are watching a movie and generally unshaken and my Mom tells me that's because I'm here and I go to our second story patio and smoke a cigarette and watch the sky turn from pink to blood red to black. There is no light except for the few porch lamps and the wind blows heavy and trees quake and there is still no rain. A tree branch breaks off the tree across the street and bounces down the empty avenue to St. Charles. Something inside me wants to run the empty boulevards and scream against the wind and every fifteen minutes it seems like the clouds are coming closer and closer to the earth and not even one millimeter of the night sky can break through this spiraling blanket and my house doesn't creak but the trees bend with the wind as it dances through their branches and pushes at their trunks that pull on the earth under the concrete with their roots. I come inside and I've received an email from my Agent saying 'COME HOME' and an email from the Vegas girl saying 'hope all is well' and maybe she doesn't know I'm looking at what may appear to be the End of Days to some in what we've been conditioned to expect from Hollywood. And slowly the raindrops start to fall lightly, and the Doors "the End" hasn't stopped playing in my head.

Comments

[nikola1tesla]

Here's part of my origional comment...

September 15, 2004 10:19 PM #

"In Bodega Bay, I wandered off toward the Pacific barefoot from an acid/ecstasy/cocaine orgy, escaping yet another yuppie babie's party scene I didn't want to attend, but got roped into. Nobody ever really understood where my head was at then-- & why I didn't want to relax inside, cuddle & make out with various club kids-- tweakers & e-tards who'd just as soon date-rape you rather than masturbate with watermelon-lemon flavored gummi bears. I'd rather walk the sands alone & search the sky, and listen, assembling the spirits of the night from the night, digging my toes through cold wet sand as the moon shone on the rising tide, and gathering my own thoughts as if they were pieces of myself falling away, wind spirits trying to breed with me. The trees on nights like those held the answers to everything I'd ever want to ask-- I never wanted to be anywhere more comfortable. They called me the Sacred Whore-- & I didn't much like the title, but they meant it as an honor, I heard later. Probably somebody just wanted to get laid. "

Actually-- I realized later it wasn't Bodega Bay after all-- it was Stinson fucking Beach. The drive back to the City through incredibly twisty foggy roads through Mt Tamalpias & Muir woods before dawn was spooky & deadly & damn cold-- after the ecstasy wore off. Come down sucks all hell.

I stuck that quote of myself in my own blog after I decided I liked how it sounded here when I wrote it. The rest of the origional comment was something about Golden Gate Park & not having broken anyone's nose there myself, but feeling the other memories of yours very familiar to me too, as simliar images rise in my mind like a phoenix from my past. Or something like that.